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The days that followed came in fragments — brief, disjointed moments that barely felt real.

The attorney had arranged for animal welfare to return the dogs.

Two days ago, she’d watched them leave, shutting down any flicker of sympathy.

Now they were back.

And they were hers.

Would they blame her? Fix those beady little eyes on her, accuse her of their brief incarceration.

“They’re a bit wound up,” one of the workers murmured, already reaching for the latches.

“They’ll settle,” the other said, offering her a sympathetic look. “Happy to be home. Just … give them time.”

Time. Right.

The cage doors opened one by one. The pugs spilled out in a flurry of movement — snorting, circling, nails clicking against the wooden boards of the porch.

Confused. Overstimulated.

But alive.

She hadn’t realized it had been a fear of hers — that somehow they might not have survived.

The dog beds were dragged out next, followed by the bag of food and the stack of bowls.

“That’s everything,” the first man said, brushing his hands together. “If you need anything, just give the office a call.”

Felicity gave a short nod. “Sure.”

They didn’t linger.

The van doors slammed shut. The engine turned over.

And just like that — they were gone.

Silence settled in their wake.

Felicity stood there on the porch, three sets of eyes fixed on her.

Waiting. Judging.

“Don’t start,” she muttered under her breath. “I saved your damned hides. Be grateful.”

Some reward, though. She’d just condemned them to a life with her.

The screen door squeaked as she pulled it open. The key took a bit of wriggling before it turned, the lock clicking free.

Three small bodies barreled through the gap like furry cannonballs.

Felicity followed, dragging the dog beds in behind her.

This … was her life now.

And she had to hustle. She had a funeral to attend.

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